


By the dream of thee

by FakeCirilla9



Category: Tristan & Isolde (2006)
Genre: Age Difference, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Infidelity, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poliamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21620086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/pseuds/FakeCirilla9
Summary: Isolde tells Mark everything sooner
Relationships: Isolde the Fair/Tristan (Arthurian), Isolde/Mark of Cornwall, Mark of Cornwall/Tristan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	By the dream of thee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClementineStarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/gifts).



> The title is a paraphrase of a line from the poem read in the movie, _The Good-Morrow_ by John Donne
> 
> And this fic is a bit [Starling's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling) ~~merit~~ fault

“Isolde. Is there anything I can do to make you happy? I want to make you happy.”

The queen faked a smile, then turned her back to her husband. She laid down, feeling as guilty as only the goodness of the one who she wanted to hate with all her heart could make her.

He was a good king. Moreover – a good man. He didn't deserve to be lied to.

_I am tired of lying._

_Then don't_ , Tristan had said.

Wasn't it like a sign from heavens? Tristan knew him so well. Her instincts also told her she could trust him. Maybe he would understand. He could understand. He was so wise. And kind. And caring. And honestly wanting to make her happy.

She turned to him, ceasing the pretence of sleeping. He was wide awake.

“Actually there is something you can do.”

“Yes? What is it?”

Despite the darkness concealing his features, she could feel his eyes on herself. The gaze was as piercing and vigilant as always, as if simply by watching he could unravel any secrets.

“I love you,” she started, heading to the point of no return. “But there was another man before you. There still is,” she whispered the last line barely audible.

Mark made no answer. She couldn’t see in the dark, if he was angry, but he didn’t shout at her or struck her, just listened in an eerie kind of silence. She didn’t dare to touch him. When the stillness grew too unbearable, she started talking again, filling it with her voice.

“I found him in Ireland, barely alive. I nursed him back to health. But I was so afraid my kinsmen would kill him when they find him, so I kept everything a secret. I didn’t even tell him my name. He was my first love,” Isolde’s words poured like a heavy rain and she didn’t stop, wanting to threw it out of herself all at once. “When we met again, he won my hand and I thought we’ll be together. But the fate is cruel – he fought in your name. I wish sometimes I'd never met him. If I never knew a man before you, I could love you as you deserve. But no one is a master of their own heart. He fought with that love, even you’ve noticed how he suffered these months. He resisted it for so long, because he loves you… But he also loves me more than a knight should love his queen. I know it is wrong to live in a lie and we have only these stolen moments in the ruins of the bathhouse, but it is stronger than us.”

Isolde’s voice trailed off. She had hoped the confession would lessen her guilt, but it didn’t alleviate here conscience much. Not with Mark laying so close to her, yet so distant. He didn’t touch her and maybe expecting a reassuring caress was too much, but he could at least react somehow, say something instead of lie there as a sinister, brooding presence.

“Mark?” Isolde tried.

“Go to sleep,” was his only answer.

***

Mark still stared at the ceiling with unseeing eyes long after Isolde’s breath finally evened out and from shaky intakes of air turned into regular inhales, as she slept.

Well, it was his fault. He had asked himself. He would be happier not knowing, living in a blissful unawareness as he apparently did for a long time.

But then the rational part of his mind provided that it was always good to know the truth, no matter how bitter. Only with all the information the king could prepare for what was coming the best he could. But hostile armies marching at his kingdom and slaying his people didn’t pain nearly as much as the betrayal of the man whom he considered his son and the woman whom he loved.

Why did it hurt so much? He loved them both. He wouldn't deny anything to any of them. What if they wanted each other? Why not let them?

They loved him too. Not as passionately as each other, as only young romantic souls can love each other. But they loved him more deeply perhaps, with the paternal undercurrent to it. And who loves truer than a parent and a child?

***

Isolde woke up to an empty bed and a coldness of the royal chamber. The coldness crept also in her heart as she remembered the previous night. Her husband’s ominous silence then and his absence now pieced together into a growing sense of premonition. Was all his unresponsiveness only plotting a cruel punishment?

Bragnae burst into the room at Isolde’s wail.

“What happened, dear?” the faithful maid sat down next to her after casting a cautionary look around the room to make sure there was no lurking lovers ready to attack her lady.

“I told him. Everything,” cried Isolde, “about me and Tristan.”

“What had he done to you? Did he hurt you?” The wrinkled hand pulled Isolde’s golden hair off her face, as Bragnae searched her expression for any signs of an abuse.

“No. But I'm afraid he's going to kill him.”

***

Tristan sneaked out of the castle as soon as he found the message. The flower bracelet was under his doors, as if dropped accidentally in passing through the corridor. But for the two of them who shared the secret it was a clear sign.

In high spirits Tristan arrived to the ruins, still twirling the flowery trinket in his hand. Isolde must have been waiting for him already, as her horse was standing nearby. Tristan stepped into the remains of an ancient bathhouse and only then his smile faded.

“Not the one you expected, huh?” commented Mark, taking in his reaction.

A cold dread clenched Tristan’s gut.

“Where is Isolde?”

“My wife is in our bedroom in our bed, where she well should be.”

“Is she all right? I... don't punish her, it was my fault.”

“Touching. But, you know, I'm here because she told me of you. And you know what hurt the most? More than the treachery, the high treason you both committed? That it was she who told me. The foreign girl I know for not even a year. And not you whom I knew my entire life. Whom I treated as a son. Well, why are you silent? Now that we stand face to face you won’t talk to me? Was it only fun behind my back? I gave you your life. And a new home. I’ve made you my heir-”

“I never asked for it.”

“But you've asked her to share your bed!”

Tristan flinched. All the guilt that gnawed at him for past few months seemed to redouble under the weight of Mark’s wrath. It was hard to look his king in the eye.

“It was stronger than me, I love her.”

Mark closed the distance between them till their faces were inches apart.

“Do you not love me more?” that was not the question Tristan expected. And the tone of Mark’s voice held something else beside a threat. “I gave you everything sans one thing. Do you want it too?”

“My liege?” Tristan felt like he was losing the track of the conversation.

*

The sound of galloping hooves interrupted their exchange and soon a winded Isolde rushed in.

“Please don't hurt him, my lord. It's all my fault!” she exclaimed from the threshold.

“You two are so eager to talk about guilt.”

Mark gathered them both closer, throwing an arm upon each of youths’ shoulders. They stood before an old painting on the wall. Mark’s gaze fell at the weathered mural.

“This bathhouse,” he mused, “It is Roman, is it not? Do you know what a Roman had a right to do when he caught another man with his wife?”

None of the addressed did answer. Mark could feel how tense they were under his arms. Confused and scared.

“No?” he prompted. “Maybe I shall demonstrate.”

He let go of them only to take off his knife. Isolde gasped, but Tristan did not even move aside as Mark pointed the blade at him, ready to die at his lord’s hand. Mark was little appeased by this show of fealty. Under the circumstances it was a bit too late for Tristan to preserve his honour of the knight.

Instead of piercing his heart, however, Mark sliced the blade through the seams of his light armour. Singlehandedly the king shed Tristan’s leather vest. The shirt followed next. Having Tristan half-naked before him, Mark dropped the dagger onto the pile of ruined clothes.

Isolde watched them closely with an increasing shock on her face. Under her wide-eyed stare Mark grabbed Tristan’s locks and brought their mouths together in a kiss. He wasn’t as gentle as he would be with her. The boy was equally young, but he was also a though warrior.

There were teeth scratching lips and fingers tugging the hair and maybe the ring scraped the skin on the neck a bit too roughly on purpose.

When Mark let go this time, both youths looked equally stunned. Tristan touched his lips in wonder, while the queen stood with her mouth agape.

“Well, my dear,” Mark addressed her, circling Tristan and standing too close behind his back. The knight did not push him away, even as Mark imprisoned him in his arms and rested his chin upon Tristan’s shoulder. He looked straight at his wife. “You asked for him in our bed, yet you don't wish to share him? He's my knight as well as yours, my queen.”

Isolde’s expression started to change to something more contentious than incredulous. Mark hoped to see her finally happy when he's done. Truly happy in her heart, not only simpering and laughing at the jokes without the smile reaching her eyes.

Tristan for his part stood limply and unresisting, but the questions were almost visible in his eyes in the mix of emotions filling them. There was hopefulness, disbelief, fear and anticipation. Mark considered his knight might feel left out, so he continued for his benefit, as well as engaging his wife more.

“No one should live without love. I told you so recently. Yet we left you deprived of it. How do you phrase it, Isolde? You can find such fine words for Eros.”

“Life without love is blank and senseless. It's like an empty shell without any meaning. If there is no substance in it, it isn’t a life, but merely an existence.”

As she came closer, Mark felt a pang of jealousy. Envy roared within him at how Isolde looked at Tristan, but he reined it in. He was doing it, because he wanted to see her happy. Them both happy. Three ideally.

“What do you say to that, Tristan? You want to live truly?”

“I do,” breathed Tristan.

And Isolde kissed him. He must still taste of Mark. The king did not let go of him, his flesh and prosthesis hands still rested upon Tristan’s shoulders.

It became more angering, when they fell into a cadence, suggesting how often they did it. Tristan's hands automatically went to the ties of her dress, disrobing her efficiently. The movements were quick and furtive like they must had been always, with the constant danger of being caught.

Tristan shifted his weight, not really escaping Mark’s hold, but trying to ease the pressure somewhat and Mark noticed he's digging his nails in the boy’s right shoulder. He relaxed his grip a bit, but it affected his knight. Tristan wavered in stripping Isolde. She broke the kiss, as the knight became distracted and unresponsive.

Mark breathed out. There was no going back from this point. He could perhaps not engage that intimately, but at least he would take some of the anger off at Tristan. He's though guy, he could take it.

Isolde’s cheeks were pink. Her eyes sparkled. She was as beautiful as ever in bed, during a feast, in a dance, after a stroll… though maybe these lone strolls had secret destinations too.

Now Isolde's hand at his knuckles told him silently to ease the clench.

She rubbed Tristan’s skin marked with crescents of Mark’s nails, but she looked into her husband’s eyes, as if reading how much she could allow herself.

Tristan hung between them in a likewise suspension of will. Waiting for his king’s word.

Mark clenched his jaw. And nodded.

Isolde untied Tristan’s pants deftly. She took out his half hard cock, stroking him to full erection. Tristan pulled one last ribbon and Isolde’s gown fell down, revealing all her beauty to both of them.

Apparently she judged that Mark has too much clothes, for, abandoning her lover, she reached to Mark to unclasp his cape’s closure. When she spread it on the ground of ancient tiles, Tristan eyed the king tentatively and from the pouch hanging by his opened trousers he retrieved a vial.

The fact that he came prepared for the liaison, so sure that he’d fuck _his_ wife aggravated Mark anew. He wrenched the oil from his knight’s hand and uncorked it with a practised movement of a thumb. Well, why not go fully the Roman way? Tristan would get more than he bargained for, but he was originally here for a tryst after all.

Tristan’s eyes glinted with apprehension as Mark poured the salve on his own hand. Isolde’s look wavered between intrigued at their interactions and disappointed it's going to be Mark. And that latter expression broke his heart a little, but also made him revise his plans. Perhaps some other time. 

Mark crouched down next to Isolde, who was sitting upon his coat spread on the ground. He touched the inside of her thighs with the slickened hand. Isolde closed her eyes as he caressed her clit. Tristan watched them with an expression similar to the one he wore months after the royal wedding – a mask of forced blankness distorted by sorrow. Mark made a horrendous effort to keep his temper under the check and motioned for Tristan to join them.

“What are you waiting for? You were so eager and suddenly you stopped. You're ready, aren't you?” He eyed the knight’s manhood pointedly.

When Tristan knelt down, Mark grabbed his cock, wiping the remnants of the ointment on it and maybe squeezing a bit too tight, as the boy hissed and Mark couldn’t decipher if it was from pain or pleasure or plain surprise. He gave him a few experimental strokes, staring hard at him. Tristan’s expression was lost, but under the uncertainty there was no revulsion.

Mark was tempted to make him come like that, end it before it even started, until the gentle nudge of Isolde’s feet brought his focus back to her. She moved closer, spreading her legs invitingly.

“Please,” she said simply and maybe she practised some magic or love was her only spell, but either way Mark couldn’t refuse her anything.

As Tristan scooted closer, it was Mark who guided him into his wife’s slit. Seeing her expression from as close as if he was the one taking her, Mark was himself painfully hard. He unbuckled his belt and untied his trousers.

Isolde reached with her white hands for Tristan, but before the knight could lean into her embrace, Mark prevented him, grasping Tristan’s hair. Mark stood up, forcing the kneeling boy to straighten his back.

Tristan was so lost in the pleasure Isolde was giving him, that he didn’t even try to avoid Mark’s advances. Or maybe he wouldn’t fight it at all even fully conscious, and not only because of ranks. He wasn’t abhorred, after all, with all the liberties Mark took with him this morning.

Mark directed his pretty face as he wanted it and nudged boy’s mouth with his cock.

“Open up,” he coaxed. He would not subject Isolde to do something like that, but Tristan... Vassal’s natural position was on his knees before his liege.

Tristan looked up at him with eyes clouded with pleasure and obeyed the command. The boy choked almost at once, when Mark pushed in. Oh, so there were areas, in which he's not an expert at fucking, huh.

Mark withdrew a bit, letting him catch his breath, before thrusting back in. It was rather sloppy, but Tristan’s mouth were wet and hot and choking sounds added to the eroticism. Mark guided his knight’s movements and set the pace. Tristan complied with each unspoken command, making up for his inexperience with an eagerness to please.

It was satisfying to know that he was Tristan’s first man. In a matter of speaking. He would do more to him, introduce them both to Romans’ ways properly. But for now thrusting into Tristan’s mouth, enjoying the wet, slippery heat was enough.

The knight didn’t recoil even when his eyes were teary from not enough air and his face red and saliva dripped down his chin. It must have been really distracting from other activities, but Isolde didn’t complain, watching them from the ground in an utter fascination; her legs laced around Tristan’s waist, hips rocking. Her own pleasure always mattered to her so she helped herself with fingers as Tristan’s movements faltered due to Mark’s use of him

Mark locked his eyes with her, as he fucked her knight’s mouth.

He could tell Isolde wanted to watch longer, but her gaze became unfocused, as her own pleasure picked. The sight of her in abandon tipped Mark over the edge too and he came in Tristan’s mouth, some of it landing at the smooth cheek. The boy wiped his face with a hand, but didn’t spit what was in his mouth. He grimaced, swallowing the bitterness. Mark tilted his head up once more. His face was tear-stained, but his eyes weren’t the dark wells of sorrow as they once were.

Isolde laid satisfied on the ground, on Mark’s rumpled coat. And looking at her sated and happy, Mark thought it was worth it. He knelt next to her, wanting to kiss her in the temple, but she turned and kissed him on the mouth, lips mouthing a silent _thank you_ against Mark’s.

Tristan, still a bit shaken, curled on the other side of Isolde. It wasn’t in his nature to be as exuberantly joyful as Isolde could be, but he did look a bit if not calmed, then relieved at least. Better to serve the lord dutifully on thy knees than to keep stabbing him in the back. Far less degrading. Far more in line with the knightly code of honour.

“This cannot repeat,” Mark spoke up after a moment of silence, “inside the castle. You two must end the secret rendezvous at every corner. People will get suspicious otherwise. And none of this frivolity when Donnchadh is our guest.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please share your thoughts on reading, dear visitors!
> 
> Here is mine during writing this: it was so incredibly hard to include Tristan there and not drown him in the castle's moat. This movie makes me so sorry for Mark and so angry with the two selfish lovers. Probably not what they aimed for with the tale of the "true love" ;)
> 
> Also how did it turn into the porn? Do you see the proportions of these scenes? 🙈 Any advice on how to include more plot and less porn into the story?


End file.
